


fealty

by curiositykilled



Series: tumblr prompts [16]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Injury, Injury Recovery, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 09:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19003120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: She wouldn't shed her armor for anyone but him.





	fealty

                  The knock comes long after dark, late enough that she should have stripped off her armor but not so late that she can’t excuse it. Allura straightens with a sigh and ignores the jolt of pain that sends through her side.

                  “Commander Shirogane, Your Highness,” the page announces, and relief rushes through her.

                  Perhaps she should be more careful – he’s perceptive, quick to pick up on hints her advisors and allies overlook – but her heart responds to his presence too eagerly for her to halt. She’s too tired now, worn down by a long, muddy battle and a series of hard decisions that followed it.

                  “Come in,” she calls.

                  His hair enters first, stooped as he is to pass through the door flap, and he’s barely straightened before he bends again in a low bow.

                  “Please, Commander, there’s no need for formalities,” she says, waving off the bow.

                  He straightens into something like parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s shed his own armor, and the motion pulls his doublet tight across his chest, accentuates the breadth of his shoulders and taper of his waist.

                  “Only if you will dispense with my title as well, Princess,” he says with a one-sided curl to his lips, humor in his grey eyes.

                  She rolls her eyes, suppressing her own smile. No matter how many times he says it, there’s something about the way he says ‘princess’ that sends shivers up her arms – some kind of reverence in his voice that resonates through him like a truth half-glimpsed through fog.

                  “Very well, Takashi,” she concedes, enjoying the way his teasing smirk softens and blooms at his name. “What is it you need? I can’t imagine you came to trade titles.”

                  “No,” he admits with a breath-like chuckle. He sobers, dark brows pinching. “I came to check on you. I saw you get hit in the fight, and I know you didn’t see the medics.”

                  She bristles immediately, reflexively. She’s not a child to be nannied and minded.

                  “And?” she demands, curt.

                  “That armor can be a pain one-handed,” he says, lifting his right hand and wiggling his fingers. “I thought I’d offer, at least.”

                  Allura deflates, feeling foolish for her defensiveness. It’s easy to forget that his hand isn’t an innate part of him, but only a month ago, it was disabled by a spell from one of Haggar’s druids. Of course he would think of this.

                  “That is very thoughtful. Thank you,” she says. “I would appreciate the help.”

                  He brushes off the thanks, ducking his head in that way he does whenever he’s flustered. It neatly dismantles his general appearance of fierce competence, makes him softer, younger. 

                  They settle together by her armor rack, and she sheds her vambraces and gauntlets while he begins unbuckling her breastplate. Once all the buckles hang loose at her sides, he steps around in front of her to lift the breastplate and pauldrons off her all together. In its absence, the pain crescendoes until her whole side and shoulder throb with a searing heat. She bites down on her lip and digs her fingers into the meat of her arm in a futile attempt to distract herself.

                  He returns from hanging the armor in place and stops just shy of her. His left hand loosely encircles his wrist, thumb rubbing at the seam there.

                  “Do you want help with the doublet?” he asks.

                  “Trying to get me naked, Shirogane?” she asks, dry.

                  He flushes a spectacular shade of red, the tips of his ears scarlet as peppers.

                  “I’m teasing,” she soothes. “I could use the assistance. Please.”

                  Though his blush doesn’t abate, he steps forward to help unlace her cuffs and collar readily. He’s intent on his work as he plucks loose the knot keeping the thick collar high up on her neck – and close. Heat radiates off him, warm and welcoming, and Allura wets her bottom lip as she watches his face, its focused frown and thinned lips.

                  The first sleeve slides off, and he bunches the padded cloth up in his hands to draw it over her head and down her left arm. As it passed her elbow, it brushes against the wound, and she bites off a keening whine. He freezes, murmurs ‘sorry,’ and pulls it the rest of the way off. After he’s discarded it on the table, he turns back to her and draws in a sharp breath.

                  “Allura,” he murmurs, aching, and brushes just his fingertips over the inflamed skin.

                  His prosthesis is cool against her blood-tacky skin, and she shies away. He flinches, drawing his hand back as if burnt.

                  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have —”

                  She grabs his wrist, the motion jerky enough to make her side scream. She ignores it in favor of drawing his hand back to her. He watches her like a fox, unsure if she’s friend of foe. Now that she has his hand, she’s not sure what to do with it, only that she doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t ever want him to apologize for touching her.

                  “Allura,” he says again, half-question, half-plea.

                  “You have permission,” she says. “I give it, all of it, to you.”

                  The non sequitor doesn’t seem to throw him off at all. His eyes widen slightly, lips part just-so. She loosens her grip, just enough to give him choice.

                  He touches her like a holy thing, like she’s meant to be worshipped. Fingertips trace over her ribs, warm palm brushes the curve of her breast and sends goosebumps pebbling up her skin. He cups her jaw with his other hand, lets the slightest tilt lead to the sweetest meeting. Her eyelids flutter shut at the soft press of his lips, and she reaches up to circle her arms round his neck.

                  Immediately, her side shrieks in protests, and she recoils with a curse. His surprise lasts only a beat before he starts laughing.

                  “That’s really not how I imagined it going,” he admits.

                  She laughs, too, appeased. She doesn’t bother teasing him for his apparent fantasies – it’s not as if this slow circling has been any kind of secret. The knowledge pleases her nonetheless.

                  “I suppose this will teach me patience,” she says.

                  “A good lesson,” Shiro says, teasing. “But we should really take care of that wound.”

                  She relents and sits on the edge of her cot while he retrieves a washbasin and cloth. It doesn’t surprise her to find he’s meticulous at this, too, washing away the dried blood and flushing the wound of debris. It had been a lucky blow when she’d raised arms for a downward strike, and lucky for her in that it had not been so deep as to incapacitate.

                  When he's finished cleaning the wound, it comes time to bind it, and Allura tugs off her brassiere with one hand, tossing it to the end of her cot as if mortally offended by its existence. Shiro pauses, gaze running over her bare torso. Now that he's been given permission, there's a hunger in his eyes that makes desire thrum up under her skin and almost makes her preen.

                  "This seems unfair," she remarks.

                  He raises an eyebrow, amused.

                  "Are you saying I should take off my shirt as well, princess?" he asks.

                  What's doubly unfair is the way desire and amusement run intertwined in his tone, turning her title into something intimate and alluring.

                  "It would put us on equal footing," she points out.

                  And potentially lead to pleasant rewards. She knows nothing can really happen tonight - the last thing she wants is to bleed all over him because they couldn't keep their pants on - but part of her is determined to ignore reason in favor of finally getting to touch him the way she's been dreaming for the past year and a half.

                  "Mm," Shiro hums, running the back of his index finger down her side, just above her hip. "You make a good point, but we did agree this was to be a lesson in patience."

                  He reaches up to press a kiss to her lips, a consolation prize, and she makes sure to pout just a little to make it clear she doesn't entirely approve of his teaching method.

                  "I'll make it up to you," he promises, even as an amused smile still plays at his lips. "Consider that incentive to let yourself heal."

                  She rolls her eyes at the implicit admonition but relents. After today's battle, they have weeks of treaty negotiations ahead that will kill her with boredom but put her body under little strain. It shouldn't be too difficult to keep to this promise.

                  He finishes wrapping the bandage around her torso, hands gentle and professional, and then sits back on his heels to look up at her. There's a keenness to his gaze that has always left her feeling like he can see through all her shields to her very core, but it's joined now with a tenderness that threatens to undo her.

                   "I should go," he says but makes no move to stand.

                   She takes his hand, presses a kiss to his knuckles like she would to her king.

                   "Thank you, Takashi," she says.

                   He turns his hand to cup her cheek and stands so that he has to bend to reach her.  His kiss feels like a benediction against her forehead, and her own hand cradles his where it rests against her cheek.

                   "Good night, Allura."

                   He leaves quiet in his wake, but the tent doesn't feel lonely in his absence. There's a residual warmth, the vestiges of his care and comfort, that lulls her into a deep and gentle sleep.


End file.
